Silk
by WriteToLive
Summary: Written for the LJ community Lifein1973's 2012 ficathon. Gene Hunt/Jackie Queen. Set after the hostage incident in 1x06; the relationship between Gene and Jackie doesn't get any less fraught.


AN: Written for the _Lifein1973_ LJ community, 2012 Ficathon. Prompt was **_Gene Hunt/Jackie Queen, one-night stand, silk stockings._**

**__**Also, sorry for the weird line breaks. Where there's a single #, there would normally just be a larger space - but this site's formatting makes me lose the will to live, so that's the least obtrusive alternative I can find.

* * *

'Just go over and talk to her. You know you want to.'

'No. And, shut your face.'

Of course Sam has to be awkward. For someone who usually thinks in circles, and/or inside and outside of boxes at various intervals, he has the uncanny knack of being completely straightforward at inopportune moments. Usually when it's most inconvenient to Gene. Maybe a conversation with her seems like a simple thing to him, but it's really not.

He turns his back, and glares at the barman in the starched collar until he brings another girly flute of champagne. His own bow tie feels tight. Sam, naturally, looks perfectly at ease.

'She won't bite. Not even if you ask her to, I bet.'

'What part of 'shut your face' was difficult for you to understand?'

'Fine. Shutting my face.'

Gene turns again, and faces the ballroom full of ponced-up coppers and their wives and girlfriends. They're expected to mingle with the politicos from the council, and the local MP is around here somewhere. But over the humdrum of white-noise chatter, and the string quartet in the corner, he can hear her laugh. She'll only be covering the event for the paper, but she acts like she belongs. She sounds like she's having a better time than any of them. He runs a finger under his collar, and tries not to look. And fails.

'Just go and bloody _talk_to her.'

###

It's really not that simple.

The moments in which he shot that kid live in his mind, as sharp as a streak of red paint across pristine white paper. The shouts that went up as the twat broke from the Post Office, the uneasy murmuring, and shuffling together of the crowd as he ran towards them. Himself watching, and swinging his gun up without a thought – always in slow motion, that bit, in his head – registering that there was something in the boy's hand. It was October. Evening came early, and they'd been there since lunch. The crowd got louder, more restless, as the kid picked up speed; something in his hand, _(shoot!)_, and his finger squeezed and that was that. A red bloom opening layers of clothes and skin, unfolding as he dropped forward. The unease in the air turned to relief, or shock. He remembers with a clarity he wishes he didn't, the smell of wood smoke from the chimneys of the red brick houses along the street, the uneven paving stones under his new white loafers as he walked towards the body. The nip of early winter air grazing adrenaline-hot cheeks. He heard a camera go off, and didn't blink at the flash. It's all like a photo, when he thinks of it. Imprinted, indelible. Coppers were jogging to surround the corpse, but he didn't run. Nothing would happen until he got there.

#

'Hello, Gene.'

'…hello, Jackie.'

He's aware of Sam glancing at his face, and has the impression of amusement on his lips, though he doesn't check. He can't look away from her, in case she gets that he's uncomfortable. Just frowns, forms the automatic pout, and acts like he doesn't care.

'DI Tyler.'

'You can call me Sam, Jackie. I don't mind.'

'_Sam?_ Since when did the police start employing human beings?'

Her laugh manages to have a Glaswegian tint. He wonders how pissed she is, though her eyes are alert enough, working Tyler over like that. She looks good. Better than he would have thought. He normally only sees her on the street or at crime scenes, her long hair pulled into a loose knot, and wearing nondescript skirt and blouse under a long coat. Her own kind of uniform. But tonight she's picked a bright red frock, cut low to the top of her tits. It clings at her hips, and draws his gaze down her body. And she shifts as he looks, moving her weight to one leg so that her hip juts out, towards him.

'Case in point,' she says, conspiratorially, 'your man here, looking at me like I'm a side of meat.'

Tyler raises his eyebrows, and smiles. Gene drags his eyes north, and scowls.

'You wish, sweet'eart. Now trot along. No quotes for you here.'

She leans over, stretching between them to place her empty glass on the bar. His gaze drops again, because she's offering a perfect eyeful of cleavage. He didn't mean to. But she laughs anyway, and straightens up.

'See you later, Gene.' Her eyes stay on him, her turn to look him up and down as she swivels on her heel. 'You scrub up all right. A tuxedo suits you. Hides your gut.'

He looks away. Sam's grinning, and it's not really the time or place to smack him in the chops.

###

He'd seen the shoulders drop as he approached, all eyes fixed on the lad, blood spreading over the tarmac. The air of relief that it was over turned dark, uncertain, and there was a knot in his gut as they started to glance at him, five paces before he could see for himself.

No gun. A stick – not quite a cudgel, too smooth for a branch, not really any kind of weapon – lay under the loose hand of the fallen. He wouldn't have done much damage with it. And Gene's first thought, through the settling dread, was _why pick it up at all?_ Useless twat. Useless, _stupid_ twat. Did he feel less exposed with it in his hand, as he decided to do a runner? Did he think he could beat his way through anyone who might try and stop him? Didn't he _think _about the coppers who'd been walking around with guns out for the last six hours? They hadn't been subtle about the fact they were armed. And now the bastard's dead, and it was his own stupid fault.

#

He hates events like this. He knows he's a face in the community, and it's necessary, and the free piss up is fine with him. But award dinners are usually just something to go to, and sit at the bar. Hearing his own name called out from the stage during one of the interminable speeches doesn't fill him with pride, or make him feel appreciated, or whatever it's supposed to. It doesn't feel like anything. Except maybe happy that Litton will look like he's sucked a lemon, somewhere in the dark across the room. Ray nudges him though, and Chris grins blearily, well on the way to being under the table. He glances at Sam. They exchange the briefest of nods, and that's it. That's all he needs. His team knows they did a good job. Cole didn't get any of them, and the only damage was the shot through George's arm, which doesn't count. The bloke's a wanker, and it's not like he died.

With that out of the way, it should be time for some serious drinking. But the speeches drone on, and it's too dark to get a waiter's attention. He fidgets, smokes, looks around. He's never been that good at sitting still and listening. And then, by some miracle, a pint appears in front of him.

'Congratulations, Gene.'

He turns his head. She doesn't look sarcastic. So he nods, a touch confused. 'Ta.'

'He wouldn't have killed us, you know. Just himself. Until you turned up.'

'So we should have let him? Risked you lot?'

'No. I'm not saying that.' Her hand lights on his arm, just for a second. Their voices never rise above a murmur. 'I'm saying congratulations.'

'It's only a commendation. Hardly the George Cross.'

'Oh, just shut up and take it.'

#

So yeah, he remembers the shooting. After, though, it all gets a bit hazy – which might be because of the enormous mess it became, for about a week. Or might be because of the alcohol that was necessary to get through it. Not just the immediate aftermath, but the months that followed – filthy looks in the street, and his mam getting blanked by women at church, and Barbara telling him people were muttering about her in the queue at the grocers of a morning. It all swirled into a haze of badness, to the point where work was the safest place to escape from it. Always more bastards to put away, after all, and it wasn't like there was any stick from the brass. No enquiry. Not even a rap on the knuckles. Rathbone made a comment or two about his slick trigger finger, but still went to the Chief Constable and stuck up for him. The general consensus among the opinions that counted, seemed to be – and he agreed whole-heartedly – that if a bastard wants to rob a Post Office and then runs away with something in his hand, he'll get what he's given.

Jackie never saw it that way. He doesn't think about any of it unless he's made to, but when he does, what sticks out is the things she wrote. 'Police must be brought to account!' and 'should killers be in charge of the division, DCI Hunt?'…OK, she never spelled that one out so boldly, but the implication was in every word. It was her articles that made life difficult, made his wife and mam suffer, made him feel like shit for doing the job people expected him to do. Christ, if that lad _was _holding a gun, he'd be given a sodding medal for putting him down. No one seemed to consider that, and especially not her.

#

'You look nice.'

His head floats pleasantly, drifting in that delicious state of drunkenness when the world is good, and fun, and light. After the eight-pint rise, you get the two-pint grace, before the third sends you into the downward spiral, towards lurching stomach and forgetfulness, and a hangover that makes you want to top yourself. He does this often enough to know that he must savour this state, enjoy it before everything gets painful. 'You should wear that dress on the job. Anyone'd talk to you, showing your tits off like that.'

She quirks an eyebrow, and does the hip-jut thing again. He doesn't pretend he isn't watching this time. 'You like my tits, do you, Gene?'

'They're all right.'

She is considerably more pissed than he is. He can tell by the way her eyes take a fraction too long to focus on his when he speaks, and the slight over-exaggeration of her movements. She lights her fag on the first attempt, but only because she's concentrating. He doesn't offer to help, but watches from his side of the corridor. He'd come out to get some air, and to avoid Chris trying to form sentences, and she'd followed. Or just happened out by accident five minutes later. He isn't sure. Her dress is almost too red against the whitewashed wall; it hurts his eyes. But he doesn't stop looking. Once she's got her cigarette going, she notices, and smacks her lips in amusement, and crosses the distance.

'You're a pig.'

'So they tell me. Are those silk stockings you're wearing?'

Her chest brushes his. He looks down. She's breathing cheap wine and smoke, and the skin on display looks soft, and warm, and inviting. He swallows and she laughs quietly, just for a second before it dies on her lips. She allows him to look for an unmeasured span of silence, where everything seems to fade to nothing.

'Why'd you have to kill him, Gene?'

'I thought he had a gun.'

'No, you didn't.'

He meets her eyes, unwavering. 'Yeah. I did.'

For a long moment, he thinks she looks uncertain. He doesn't blink, and she doesn't look away. It's quiet out here, in the corridor that leads to the back gardens one way, the kitchen the other. The noise from the ballroom is a long way off, distorted and unreal. What's real is the cloying scent of her flowery perfume, and her leg brushing his.

She presses her lips together eventually, and steps back. He resists the urge to follow, and tries to ignore the twinge between his legs. She shakes her head. 'I didn't mean for-'

'Gene! There you are. The Chief Constable…oh. Sorry.'

Tyler's pissed too, with that grin he gets when he finally lets himself unwind. He looks from one of them to the other, and Gene arranges his face into something impassive. It doesn't take more than a second. 'What's the matter?'

'Chief Constable wants a word. He's doing the rounds, I think.'

He nods, and walks away from her without a backward glance. Sam waits until they're 'round another corner before making a comment. He's surprised he managed to hold it that long.

'Why didn't you bring your wife tonight?'

He pushes open the ballroom door, and glances around for their boss. 'She knows I hate these things.'

It's no kind of answer, but it's something to say.

###

'You should be thanking me, you know.'

'What for?'

'The glowing write-up I gave you. Making you all heroic, taking a bullet for us, all of that.'

'I'm not sodding Jesus. And I'm not thanking you for pointing out I did my job.'

'You might not have that commendation if it weren't for me.'

'I don't need commendations. I'd come here just for the booze.'

'Liar.'

For a bird who thinks she's so clever, she's wrong about him more often than not. But he can't blame her. Most people are. Only – well, not really. They see what he shows them, and he's not complaining when they don't look further. Except when they only see a killer, because of stories in the newspaper. He loves this city, he loves his people – but they're stupid sometimes, like any mass collective is. He can't complain about that, either. He's one of them. He believes what they write in the paper too, without a thought.

'You owe me a cigarette.'

'Do I?'

'Yeah. From the newspaper office.'

She's right. He does. He pulls his bow tie loose, and unfastens the top button of his shirt. She looks swamped in her coat, and more tired than drunk now. 'Wouldn't want to be in your debt.'

'I know. So pay up.'

'If you tell me whether those are silk stockings or not.'

She frowns, and then remembers. He can see the action of it on her features. Confusion, to recognition, to recall, to the smile that pulls her lips up at the corner. 'Give us a fag, I might let you look.'

He shrugs, and pushes away from the wall by the entrance to the hotel. People mill around them, people he knows, and doesn't. There's a pat on his back as he walks to her, hands in pockets, but he ignores it. 'They're in my car. Come on. I'll give you a lift. Your taxi's not coming.'

For the first time tonight, her veneer scratches. The sardonic light in her eyes gives way to surprise, and whatever sarcastic remark she had lined up seems to have been found wanting. He smiles at her, enjoying the rare glimpse of a person instead of her armour, and takes her elbow.

'I don't need you to hold me up.'

'Fine.'

He lets her go, and they walk side by side. Well, he walks. She sways, and totters in her heels, and grabs him once when she hits a loose paving stone. He lets her hold, and says nothing, and doesn't comment when she takes her hand away again.

'What were you saying? Before. You didn't mean for…what?'

'What? Oh…oh, I don't know. Can't remember.'

###

He has no idea where she lives. Doesn't want to know, doesn't care. She smokes his cigarettes one after the other, trailing a hand out of the window she's opened wide. It's freezing, and he tells her to shut it, but she doesn't. 'It'll save you stopping for me to be sick,' she says, and he can only hope she's joking.

'Puke on my paintwork, I'll make you lick it off.' She just laughs, and he just drives, neither saying anything more until he pulls in behind the old, empty Co-op. There's nothing back here now, not even bins. No kids hanging about, no dogs barking out there in the black. Just the faintest yellow glow from the streetlight on the main road, reaching up the alley, stretching for them but not quite making it. He looks across at her. She's already got the coat open, displaying her front, and sliding down the seat a little so the fold in her body isn't so sharp. He doesn't let himself think. Just leans across, slips his foot into the stairwell between her legs, and is kissing her before his body presses to hers. She laughs again, under her breath, and fumbles for the lever to push the chair back.

#

He'd only seen her once on her own between the time of the shooting, and the incident at the newspaper office. It was in a corner shop, of all places. He'd just gone in to buy some fags and chewing gum, and she'd been standing there with a paper in one hand, and a Mars Bar in the other, checking the price of wine on the shelf.

'Isn't cheap lager more your style?' he'd said, and she'd swirled, her mouth an instant, rigid edge of defence and disapproval.

'Maybe I've got a date with a bank manager,' she'd shot back, and despite everything, he'd kind of admired the way she made no bones about what she was. No airs and graces, no pretence that she had class. 'Maybe this'll be the quickest way into his kecks.'

'Just get on your knees and open your mouth, he'll appreciate it. Won't have to hear you talk, then.'

He'd chucked a quid down and walked out before she could reply. Childish, maybe, but he didn't trust himself to talk to her. His mother had been trying not to cry the day before. She hadn't been invited to a social, and it was all Jackie's fault. He'd said that, but his mother had the nerve to blame _him_. He couldn't defend against that. No one could.

#

He wanted her on her knees, sucking him off. He leant forward until his hand was on the backseat, pushing her head down so she'd get the hint. But there wasn't room and she fought him, wouldn't go down, though her hand had gone into his pants quick enough.

'You'd trust me not to bite it off?' She grins like a shark, and he realises that no, he doesn't.

'Turn over.'

'Why?'

'Easier.'

There's nothing romantic about the way she swears when trying to manoeuvre herself underneath him, nothing sexy about his back arched up against the windscreen to give her room. But his cock doesn't care about that when she's on her front, one leg on the driver's seat, splayed for him with her dress bunched around her waist. Her stockings slide under his fingers, and he groans as he presses his fingers to her warmth. There's something about silk. It reminds him of the girls just after the war, splashing out on the good stockings to please the boys left alive. A touch of class, in a brown and starving world.

'Get on with it. My arse is freezing.'

He gives it a slap – not hard – and her surprised squeal propels him forward, into her. She squeals again, scrabbles for grip on the leather seats, and he thrusts so she can't get hold, hard enough that her whole body rocks forward.

'Gene - - _oh_ –'

Not so mouthy now. Not so clever, not so mean. He braces his knees on the edge of the seat. Hunches over her, grips the sides of the chair. No part of his body touches hers, except his length between her legs, disappearing inside her in rough strokes. Fast, uncaring and good enough to make him forget how much he wants to hate her.

'More. You big bastard, give me more.'

He wants to say no. Slow down, deny her. But he can't, and he's panting, the whole car rocking.

'Get your tits out. Right _now_.'

She pulls her dress down over one of them, her back arched as she shoves back to meet him. Her cries fill the space, and he swears under his breath, aware of the sweat between his shoulder blades. He grabs her breast and squeezes, pinches the nipple; she writhes and grabs his hand, shoves it between her legs. He pushes against her clit, and shuts his eyes as she comes, jerking on him, shouting words that turn the air bright blue. Words from the gutter, that even he doesn't use.

When she goes still, he's still inside her. Still panting, his chest tight with pleasure. He can feel the nerves at the base of his abdomen quivering as he holds himself steady, the beat of arousal fast in his swollen sac. She drags herself forward though, until he falls out of her. The dim light from the street lamp is enough to show his nob glistening wet from her pleasure. She turns underneath him with a smile on her face, sly, like a cat.

'I could leave you hanging. You'd deserve it.'

Maybe he does. He says nothing. He won't beg. She tilts her head in curiousity, and idly fingers her exposed nipple. Brazen, he thinks. And aches.

'Did you kill him on purpose?'

'No.'

She takes his cock in hand, and pumps gently. 'Did you, Gene?'

'No.'

'It didn't make you feel good, holding that gun? Watching him go down?'

'No.'

She hesitates. He can feel she's listening for a lie, but he's so close to coming, and anyway, it's the truth.

'Bitch. Finish me.'

Her grip tightens. He moans out loud, nervous and high. But then she swirls off the tip of him, and fingers press behind his balls, and his head bangs the roof as he arches, and shoots all over the front of her dress. For a few long moments there's nothing but the sweet agony of it, and the sound of her sarcastic laugh in her ears, and he doesn't, can't, care what she thinks.

###

The car stinks. He doesn't complain about the window being open. They smoke, boneless in their seats, clothes rumpled and loose.

'I never meant for your family to suffer for what you did.'

'What you did, you mean.'

'Both.'

#

Eventually, he starts the engine.

'Where do you live?'

'Rusholme.'

'I'll drop you at the taxi rank.'

'What?'

'I'm not driving all the way out there.'

'…you bastard. You rotten, stinking…'

He says nothing. She's glaring at him in the darkness, and he doesn't care. When he pulls over to let her out, it's his turn to smile.

'You shouldn't wear silk, Jackie. Doesn't suit slags like you.'

He'll probably pay for that some time, some place. But right now, with her swearing and slamming the door, wearing his stain under her coat - he reckons it'll be worth it.


End file.
